What if the moon decided to stop pulling tides?
Our boat would float in the still water, sails just going along for the ride.
The icy blue canvas supports our wooden box, its never ending darkness is lonely at the docks.
The shoreline buzzes in the sunlight, but take the stars from the sky and no one comes around on a cold night.
I am a fisher of men, collecting pieces of everyone I meet.
Some jagged, sharp to leave scars.
Their corners cutting deep.
Others will fit perfect, made in craftsmen's hands.
When will I be complete?
Our boat would float in the still water, sails just going along for the ride.
The icy blue canvas supports our wooden box, its never ending darkness is lonely at the docks.
The shoreline buzzes in the sunlight, but take the stars from the sky and no one comes around on a cold night.
I am a fisher of men, collecting pieces of everyone I meet.
Some jagged, sharp to leave scars.
Their corners cutting deep.
Others will fit perfect, made in craftsmen's hands.
When will I be complete?
This piece has been published in Teen Ink’s monthly print magazine.
Join the Discussion
This article has 1 comment. Post your own!